


The Portrait

by boneyaard



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Bandits & Outlaws, Escape from Prison, First Meetings, Gay outlaws, M/M, gay cowboys sitting in a jail cell, no feet apart cause theyre both gay, vandermatthews
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:20:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25502020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boneyaard/pseuds/boneyaard
Summary: “I’m not rich. I thought you were rich. I was, incidentally, planning to rob you," Dutch chuckled.Hosea lifted his head. Their grins mirrored each other.“Well then,” Hosea smiled, feeling a strange flicker of warmth and power flood through his chest, “isn’t that something?”
Relationships: Hosea Matthews & Dutch van der Linde, Hosea Matthews/Dutch van der Linde
Comments: 23
Kudos: 85





	The Portrait

_**March 6th, 1877 - Kettering, Ohio** _

The sheriff’s office in Kettering, Ohio had two small cells at the back of a somewhat ramshackle structure, and, judging from the coating of dust on the scrubbed wooden floor, it didn’t get much use. Hosea clicked his tongue and stared up at the peeling white paint on the ceiling, adjusting himself on the lumpy straw mattress, the thin iron bed frame rattling with his movements. In the cell beside him, a filthy, barefoot old codger was snoring peacefully on the other cot, a large ceramic bottle cradled in his wrinkled hands like a beloved infant. It was filled with what Hosea guessed was moonshine from the sour, pungent smell that was wafting across the space between them. It seemed as though the gentleman taking his afternoon siesta cradled next to his bottle was a repeat customer of this establishment, as the Sheriff hadn’t even bothered to take away his drink. Hosea had tried to wake him a few times in an attempt to stage a jailbreak (or at the very least, get a small swig of shine), but the man was dead to the world and likely wouldn’t wake until the next morning. 

Hosea had come to Kettering following rumours that a few of the townsfolk had struck oil, and that the town was teeming with newly rich idiots and a massive influx of wanderers trying to make some money. One such young gentleman, a dark haired yankee with a fat cigar, had been particularly interested in his phony propositions of wealth and access to Portuguese bonds. He had just been getting comfortably acquainted with this young man over a pint when one of the gentlemen he had robbed the night before stormed into the saloon with Sheriff Carmichael and his deputies in tow. The sheriff of this particular backwater had been nauseatingly pleased with himself when he had finally brought him in, boasting to anyone who would listen that he was “cleanin’ up the town good n’ proper-like.” 

And so in the cell he sat, with nothing but his thoughts, the snoring of the drunkard next to him, and the flick of a deck of playing cards that Sheriff Carmichael’s deputy was shuffling to keep him company. He had spent a cold night in the cell, and the dusty clock on the wall was just reading eleven in the morning when Sheriff Carmichael appeared at the door and called to his deputy, the two of them leaving with a great sound of pounding hooves and shouting. The creaking of the building eventually lulled Hosea into a doze, until the thunderous sound of the Sheriff and his deputies returning roused him from sleep. Hosea cracked an eye open and tilted his head in mild interest at the sound of loud clanking metal, and was quite surprised to see the same dark haired gentleman in the red vest that he had tried to con in the saloon being pushed bodily into his cell. 

The young man was rather thickly built, with strong shoulders and a strong jaw. He hadn’t caught the man’s name, but from the glinting ring on the man’s fingers, he had taken him for a foolish inheritor of a small fortune, bandying about his father’s money. The sheriff undid the handcuffs binding his hands and gave him a swift, undignified kick on the rump, sending him flying forward onto his knees. He caught himself by his hands on the edge of the thin metal cot that Hosea was lounging on. Hosea blinked and looked down at the young man, whose muddy face was clouded in a dark grimace. His pristine vest was scuffed, and he had a cut on his cheek. It would seem this young man had had quite the difficult time in the twelve or so hours since Hosea had been forced to leave him in the saloon. 

Sheriff Carmichael laughed and shut the door to the cell, the metal grinding and clanking with finality. 

“Thought we wouldn’t catch on to your schemes, huh, boys?” the Sheriff sneered.

Hosea raised his eyebrows, mystified, but Carmichael turned on his heel before he could ask, whistling and swinging the keys from a large ring. He and his small gang of deputies left, leaving Hosea alone with the gentleman and the old fellow sleeping in the next cell over. 

The dark haired young man took a deep breath and sat back on his haunches, looking up to where Hosea was stretched out comfortably on the thin mattress, his arms crossed behind his head, his tall boots crossed at the ankles. 

“I didn’t get your name, sir,” Hosea said, nodding down at him and smiling graciously, as if they were continuing the conversation they had started in the saloon.

The dark haired young man seemed to size Hosea up for a moment, before a wide grin spread across his face. Amusement danced in his dark eyes, and he extended a hand out to Hosea. 

“Matthew Van Der Linde,” the young man introduced himself, the ring on his thick middle finger catching the thin slats of daylight streaming through the barred windows. Hosea smirked back in amusement and removed one of his arms from behind his head, taking his hand. They shook. 

“Hosea Matthews. We seem to have ‘Matthew’ in common.” 

“Well, most people call me Dutch, if that will help with any possible confusion,” Dutch Van Der Linde snorted, taking back his hand and shuffling his body around so his upper back was leaning against the metal frame of the bed. They shared a small silence before one of Dutch’s thick eyebrows raised and he inclined his head toward the sleeping fellow in the next cell over. 

“Talk to him yet?” 

“No, been asleep this whole time,” Hosea shrugged, “I think he’s got shine in that bottle but he’s too far away for me to get it.” 

“Right. Won’t be good for a prison break then,” Dutch muttered. 

“No,” Hosea agreed, inclining his blonde head toward Dutch. 

He was quite a handsome thing, in a brutish way. His eyes were quick and calculating, flicking around their jail cell and taking in every detail, every crack and spot of rust. His clothes showed that he was conscious about his appearance. His clean-shaven face was smooth and his medium complexion even. His silky black hair was slicked away from his forehead, showing a widow’s peak, his hair curling at the base of his neck. 

“I’m curious. What made you choose me for your schemes?” Dutch asked him suddenly, his intense eyes flicking to where Hosea was lounging. His eyes were very dark and they seemed to hold him physically still when he caught Dutch’s gaze. He was mesmerized and discomfited by them. He blinked to rid himself of the feeling.

“You seemed rich… Though, based on the fact that you’re in here with me, I’m assuming I either chose wrong or you did something really stupid.” 

Dutch chuckled.

“I’m not rich. I thought you were rich. I was, incidentally, planning to rob you.” 

Hosea lifted his head. Their grins mirrored each other. 

“Well then,” Hosea smiled, feeling a strange flicker of warmth and power flood through his chest, “isn’t that something?”  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Unfortunately Sheriff Carmichael did not believe in giving his prisoners items of basic comfort, and the frigid early March wind blew ragged and unseasonably cold across the Ohio plains. It rattled through the crooked jail cells and the temperature steadily dropped as the evening progressed. After dark, Sheriff Carmichael eventually gave them a cursory sneer and shuffled out of the door, on his way to his other engagements that didn’t consist of watching over three low-life criminals. Eventually the napping moonshiner awoke and blearily got to his feet, letting himself out of his cell, which the sheriff had left unlocked. 

They managed to convince the gentleman to give them the remaining shine in exchange for Dutch’s ring. As the fellow staggered out of the door, Dutch turned to Hosea and smirked. 

“It’s just metal. He won’t get shit out of it.” 

Hosea laughed and took the heavy jug from Dutch’s shivering hands, taking a long swig. They had spent the last hour wandering around the cell, looking for weak points, but even with their heads combined they couldn’t find a way out that would be discrete enough as to not wake the whole town. Thankfully, the building was set a little apart from the main street of Kettering, but the issue remained that the cell itself was solid and impenetrable despite the ragged condition of the building. There were a few gaps here and there, but even Hosea’s thin frame was much too large to be of any use. 

Both of them were arrested before they were able to retrieve their coats, and the March chill was bitter against their bodies. The cot boasted one threadbare blanket that Dutch eventually pulled off of the thin straw mattress, wrapping it around his shoulders and extending his arm, offering Hosea a place at his side. Hosea sat beside him on the scratchy wool, covering his shoulders gratefully and cradling the bottle. 

It was potent stuff. The night wind howled in around them and Hosea felt the blissfully warm and numb sensation of the alcohol flooding through his body, helping him ignore the cold that bit at them both through the threadbare blanket. They sat shoulder to shoulder, facing the light of the single lamp whose flame flickered dimly from its place on the Sheriff’s worn desk. 

They talked well into the night, the distant sound of wolves from the short range of mountains singing with the biting wind. The shine had long since been depleted, but Dutch held onto it anyways, the alcohol making the dingy cell around them seem slow and slippery. 

Dutch sighed suddenly, a great shiver going through him. 

“Hosea, have you ever been in love?” he asked, breaking the drunk and companionable silence that had fallen.

Hosea snorted in surprise, but looked to Dutch and saw that he was deadly serious. 

“Well… I can’t say I have,” he responded, shrugging a little. 

“I have,” whispered Dutch, staring forward at the floor, glassy eyed, and Hosea was chilled at the low note of hatred that seeped into his warm voice. 

“You ever heard of the O’Driscoll gang?” 

“Oh, sure. I’ve heard of them.”

“I used to run with them boys,” Dutch confessed, the tone of cold loathing still edging his voice, “there was a girl I loved, thought I might get married to her… Colm O’Driscoll killed her, Hosea, he murdered her... In cold blood.” 

“Why?” Hosea felt himself ask, strangely breathless.

“Cause I loved her, and that’s all,” Dutch whispered, his voice aching. He stared directly into his eyes as he spoke and Hosea felt a tremble down his spine.

“I’m sorry about that, Dutch,” Hosea said quietly, gently touching his elbow to his companion’s in sympathy. 

They shared a very quiet few moments in somber silence, wherein Dutch put the bottle gently on the scuffed wooden floorboards. After a few beats, Hosea spoke up. 

“You know,” he began cautiously, “when I met you I didn’t, uh… Well I thought you might… Like to hunt... _Stags_.” 

Dutch blinked owlishly for a moment before Hosea’s meaning came to him and he raised a furry eyebrow. 

“Well, for what it’s worth, I thought the same about you, Hosea,” 

He was put off kilter by Dutch’s constant use of his first name, and every time he said it, Hosea felt himself wishing he could hear Dutch say it more. His mellow and passionate tones made him feel exposed, and Hosea suddenly knew, in that moment, that if he continued talking to Dutch he would be changed forever— like a tree struck by lightning that carried a permanent fissure, a scar that showed it had been touched by the rage of God. 

Dutch was too charming for his own good. 

Far too charming. 

“I have to get some sleep I think,” Hosea said, changing the subject rapidly, his mind confused and thrilled and terrified by the way that Dutch flicked his eyes over his thin fingers. 

“Of course,” Dutch said graciously, and it annoyed and intrigued Hosea that he said it like an emperor speaking to a favourite vassal, allowing him some fine gift for his services. Hosea grumpily threw himself down onto the thin bed, curling into himself for warmth. The thin blanket did not follow him, but he screwed his eyes shut and tried to sleep despite the frigid room. After a few moments he heard Dutch move and then a weight appeared beside him, the warm plane of his back against his. The edge of the thin blanket appeared at his waist and he silently took it.   
  
  


* * *

**_  
  
  
March 7th, 1877_ **

Hosea was rudely awakened early the next morning by the sound of a nasally voice screaming unintelligible words and hammering something hard against the bars of the cell. 

  
“Wake up! Goddammit, wake up!” 

Hosea groaned and turned his head from where it had been nestled into a warm back, lifting his head up over the threadbare blanket and giving the person screaming a very displeased eye. 

Sheriff Carmichael was standing at the door to the cell, practically frothing at the mouth in fury, and Hosea wondered for a moment if Dutch had somehow managed to escape when he felt him snort awake and sit up, glaring. It turned out he had been the warm back he had been leaning against.

“Whatever is your issue, Sheriff?” Dutch bit groggily, his lip curled. 

“You two scum better… Better put some distance between yous,” sheriff Carmichael stammered furiously, “I’ll not abide by no… No unnatural goin’s on in my jail!” 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Dutch demanded, his voice thick with sleep. 

“Sharin’... A bed…,” the Sheriff ground out, his eyes wide and feverish. 

”You only gave us one blanket and one cot, you damn fool,” Hosea bit sarcastically, refusing to move. That shine had been an interesting mixture and he had a devil of a headache. 

“Move! Get apart, now, or I’ll shoot the both of yous!” 

Dutch sneered, sitting up and bowing slightly. “As you wish, sir…”

He moved slowly to sit on the floor, leaning heavily against the cot. One of the deputies came by a few minutes later and deposited two metal bowls of gruel into the jail cell. They clattered onto the floor and sent a small spray of porridge onto the floorboards. Dutch stared down at the mess, and lifted his head defiantly. 

“Sir, you have not given me or my good friend here utensils to eat with,” he said slowly, enunciating each word, a glimmer of the same venomous hatred Hosea had heard when he spoke of Colm O’Driscoll entering his voice. 

“You don’t get none,” mocked Sheriff Carmichael, leaning back in the chair by the crooked desk and putting his muddy boots up on its surface. He picked at his dirty nails and ignored them, a sour expression on his face. His deputy wandered outside and the wooden door slammed in the rough frame.

Hosea finally roused himself from the cot and came to join Dutch on the floor. He looked into his face, and his eyes were wide, his pupils pinpricks that stared unblinkingly at Carmichael’s unshaven face. He seemed almost wild, crazed with fury. Hosea was struck very suddenly that Dutch was capable of committing acts of incredible violence, perhaps even cruelty. His hand found its way to Dutch’s shoulder, trying to steady the fire that raged in the other man’s eyes. 

“Let’s just eat, Dutch,” he said slowly. He felt Dutch’s shoulder slowly relax under his touch and eventually he nodded, looking sidelong at Hosea and smiling ruefully. 

“Yes.. Yes, you’re right,” Dutch muttered softly, “No point in starving.” His eyes narrowed, as though thinking deeply for a moment, before his expression cleared. He nodded to Hosea, the corner of his mouth quirking upward and his eyes friendly. He reached forward and took the bowls. He offered one to Hosea and held his own up in a mockery of a toast. 

“To us,” he said simply, and Hosea couldn’t help but smirk, clinking his plate with Dutch’s. 

They were eating in silence, using their hands, when a man they didn’t recognize came slowly through the creaking door, closing it behind him with a calm snap. He turned around, making his leisurely way into the room. Sheriff Carmichael turned around at the sound of the opening door and balked when he saw this stranger, his shit-stained boots sliding to the floor and his back going ramrod straight, a serious and self-important expression sliding onto his gruff face. 

The stranger was wearing suspiciously clean clothes that were perfectly tailored, a long dark coat covering his shoulders and a short bowler hat atop his graying hair. He was handsome and authoritative, and his brown eyes flicked around the jail in a commanding swoop before landing on Hosea and Dutch eating their breakfast. 

“Well, well, well,” the man said coldly, walking forward and leaning on the cell, “you really did catch two birds with one stone, Mister Carmichael.” 

The Sheriff leapt to his feet and nodded vigorously. 

“Wasn’t sure if it were them, Mister Burns, but I wanted t’be sure.” 

Hosea felt like his guts had taken a plunge into cold water. He knew that name, and if his clothing was any indication, he knew who he worked for. Hosea had heard tales of an agency that was habitually employed by the government in order to deal with threats such as he and Dutch… He had overheard them being involved in strike breaks and other nasty businesses. He thought they might have been called the Pinkertons, but he wasn’t completely sure. What he did know, however, was that the presence of this Mister Burns in his midst was extremely bad news. Beside him, Dutch looked nonchalant. Unlike Hosea, he didn’t seem to be worried at all. He also seemed to personally recognize Burns.

“Well, good morning, Mister Burns,” Dutch greeted, his voice sickeningly sweet, throwing his hands wide, “Fancy seeing you here in this fine town.”

Milton smiled coldly and turned around, ignoring Dutch and nodding to Carmichael. 

“That’s them, alright. Me and my men’ll be taking them with us when we leave in two days‘ time.”

“Oh?” Sheriff Carmichael asked, barely keeping the note of disappointment out of his voice. Clearly he felt cheated that he wouldn’t be able to hang them himself. 

“They’re both wanted men in more than one state. We’ll be taking them to Columbus to be tried at the federal level…” 

Mister Burns turned his head a little to the left toward Dutch and Hosea’s cell, a small smirk on his face, before continuing. 

“They’re gonna hang them for sure, of course. The trial is just a formality.”

The self-satisfied expression was back on Sheriff Carmichael’s face. “Oh, I see, Mister Burns…” 

Carmichael and Burns left the building to continue their conversation outside, the door slamming shut with finality behind them. 

Dutch and Hosea exchanged a look.   
  
  


* * *

  
  


  
“I have an idea on how to get us out of here,” Hosea said quietly, lying back to back with Dutch, their shared blanket taught over top of them. 

They had been a little subdued since Mister Burns’ visit and Carmichael’s smug looks had felt almost unbearable as the reality of their situation settled in like a gloom over their small cell. They spent the rest of the day and all of the evening speaking very little, turning in to sleep early for both lack of things to do and as a cure for the crushing anxiety that was rapidly settling over them both. Hosea had lain awake for hours, his mind running in circles, until suddenly he had an idea.

The perfect escape plan. 

“Oh?” Dutch mumbled sleepily, his voice rumbling through Hosea’s back. 

“Yes.” 

Hosea licked his lips, feeling strangely thrilled, a small, mischievous smile in the corner of his mouth. 

“We kiss.” 

Dutch seemed to freeze a little, before turning over rapidly to face Hosea’s back. 

“We do what, now?” 

Hosea turned his head, looking over his shoulder and staring into Dutch’s sleepy and confused face. A few tendrils of his black hair had fallen into his eyes, and he was searching Hosea’s face like he was looking for visible hints that his cellmate had gone completely mad. 

“I said, we _kiss_. In front of Sheriff Carmichael.” 

The wind whistled in through the building and Dutch stared at him, his mouth open slightly. Hosea could see his brain working, putting two-and-two together, and watched as his expression changed slowly from confusion to a slow, mischievous grin. 

“Oh…Oh,” Dutch chuckled lowly, the fire of the lamp glinting devilishly in his eyes, “oh that is precious… Perfect…. It’s genius, Hosea.” 

Hosea turned so he was lying face to face with Dutch, who was grinning widely at him, his eyes practically sparkling. He had managed to capture one hundred percent of Dutch’s attention, and it made him feel more powerful and confident than he had ever felt in his entire life. They lay nose-to-nose, their knees touching, the faint scent of heady cigars floating between them and Hosea felt like Dutch’s approval was making him drunk.

“I got the idea this morning when he got so angry about us sharin’ the bed,” Hosea continued, his own gleeful grin unstoppable as he explained his plan, “I mean, I shared beds with men before in jail cells and there wasn’t any sheriff who much gave a shit. I don’t know what this one’s problem is, but that’s beside the point…”

“Do continue,” Dutch nodded genially, the grin never leaving his face. 

“Well, he just about came into the cell to break us apart this morning– Imagine his reaction if we kissed. I say he’s the kinda fella who won’t abide two men necking in his pristine, law-abiding jail, and when he comes in to break it up––” 

“We grab him and escape,” Dutch finished for him, his eyes bright. He clapped Hosea heartily across the chest, chuckling warmly with laughter. 

“Oh, a greater and more ingenious plan I have never heard!” he crowed happily. 

Hosea’s heart pounded and he felt his cheeks glowing red, crossing his arm across the place where Dutch had touched him as if he wanted to hold onto the sensation forever. 

“We’ll have to wait until it’s just him, though,” Dutch mused thoughtfully after a few moments, “if one of his thick-headed deputies is around, or that bastard Burns, it won’t work.” 

“Already figured that out,” Hosea said smugly, his hazel eyes flashing, “I’ve been here a day longer than you, and I noticed he takes over by himself for half an hour to give his deputies a little break, usually around noon and midway through the afternoon.” 

“Perfect. That’ll give us two chances in case he decides not to keep to his usual schedule,” Dutch grunted, turning his head to the ceiling and letting out a long and happy breath.   
They lay close, facing each other for many moments, and Hosea was torn between the desire to turn away like he knew he should and being bold and foolish and putting his forehead against the broad plane of Dutch’s chest. He felt extremely strange, like he had impressed someone important and was basking in their approval– though Dutch was neither important nor his approval worth much of anything. He was quickly learning that Dutch had a certain way about him, something enticing that he was finding more and more difficult to stay away from. He had seen moths throw themselves into the flames flickering in lanterns and suddenly knew how they felt. The worrywart inside him that had kept him alive despite his run-ins with the law was oddly silent as he contemplated what he would do once he and Dutch escaped. The fact that their plan might not succeed popped into his mind, and his mouth twisted. 

“What if it don’t work, Dutch?” Hosea asked him nonchalantly, trying to keep the anxiety he was feeling out of his voice. 

“Well,” Dutch sighed, closing his eyes to sleep, “If it goes wrong… At least we'll both get a very nice kiss out of it.” 

While Dutch snored softly, Hosea stayed wide awake.   
  
  


* * *

_**  
  
  
March 8th, 1877** _

It was late in the afternoon when Sheriff Carmichael’s deputy finally left the building, spitting expertly in the spittoon outside and walking toward the saloon, leaving his boss alone to mind the criminals. Hosea watched him go in a daze, his stomach clenching in a mixture of nerves and exhilaration. Dutch hadn’t noticed yet, and was sitting on the cot, looking at his hands as though lost in thought. Hosea pushed himself off of the cell bars that he had been lounging against and walked deliberately over to Dutch. 

His dark hair had come loose from where he slicked it against his skull, an attractive strand fluttering in front of his bent face and somber expression. Hosea stood in front of him, unable to stop himself from grinning foolishly despite his nerves. He turned his head and saw Carmichael sprawled in his usual spot at the crooked desk, a newspaper in his hands. He was reading it with a frown on his face, not paying any attention to what his prisoners were doing in the cell. 

They were going to make him pay attention. 

Hosea wordlessly brought his hand gently to Dutch’s chin, his two day stubble prickling against the inside of his palm. He lifted his chin so Dutch was looking up at him, his chapped, pink lips parted in surprise. 

Hosea leaned down and kissed him. 

It only lasted for a few seconds—it was as chaste a kiss as ever was between two world-weary young men— but it set something alight inside Hosea and the strange and mysterious feeling he had been trying to ignore since Dutch had been pushed into his cell two days ago reared its head and he recognized it for what it was. Hosea had never thought of himself as someone who might want the affections of another man, but here it was, plain as day. He pulled away, his hand still on Dutch’s chin, watching with satisfaction as his normally sharp eyes became hooded and misty. 

“It’s time,” Hosea mouthed, his eyes crinkling in humour, nodding his head in the Sheriff’s direction, “thought I’d practice…”

Dutch chuckled warmly, the fiery glint of confidence and humour that made Hosea feel ten feet tall flashing in his eyes. He got up and stood at Hosea’s side, turning to face him. They were roughly the same height, and their faces were so close he could have counted each lush eyelash that thickly adorned Dutch’s gleaming eyes. 

Dutch suddenly dove, a smirk curving the corner of his mouth, catching Hosea’s thin lips with his own and pressing hard, making a loud and somewhat exaggerated hum of pleasure against his mouth. 

“You boys been quiet for a whi— JESUS FUCKIN’ CHRIST!” 

Sheriff Carmichael leapt to his feet, sending the chair flying backward. 

Hosea snorted in laughter, grabbing Dutch by the waist of his pants and pulling him forward so their bodies were flush against one another. Dutch’s dark eyes blinked open and narrowed, his grin widening against Hosea’s mouth. 

“ _You wanna play chicken_?” they seemed to say, “ _Fine. Let’s play chicken…_ ” 

“WHAT THE HELL ARE— WHAT IS—“ 

Carmichael sputtered, his shock freezing him in place. 

They upped the ante. 

Dutch’s mouth opened against his and he turned his head to the side. Before he could process what was going on, Hosea felt Dutch’s tongue gently exploring his mouth. He felt his knees weakening as Dutch’s thick fingers threaded themselves through his blonde hair.

“Mmnnn…” 

Hosea heard himself make the noise, but he was embarrassed to admit that it was entirely unintentional. 

“GODAMMIT, STOP THAT RIGHT NOW!” screeched Carmichael, his voice a few octaves higher than where it usually sat. 

He wasn’t coming into the cell. 

Dutch pulled away from the kiss, his lips swollen. They breathlessly gasped at one another for a moment. Dutch raised an eyebrow. 

_Here goes nothin’..._

Hosea felt Dutch’s hands grab him beneath his ass and lift him into the air. He felt the cold steel bars of the cell through his shirt as he was pressed against them, Dutch’s body holding him in place as his face dove into Hosea’s neck, sloppily kissing under his jawline and trailing his mouth down toward his chest, unbuttoning Hosea’s shirt as he went. Hosea thought he might have heard the clinking of the keys against the door to the cell, but he couldn’t be sure. Everything seemed very far away all of a sudden, and when Dutch’s re-adjusted himself to get a better hold of his body, Hosea’s mouth widened and he squeezed his eyes shut because there was no longer a way to hide how this supposed charade of kissing was making him feel. 

Suddenly Dutch was ripped away from him and he tumbled to the ground, cracking his head against the iron bars of the cell. Seeing stars, he only had a moment to recover before getting to his feet. Carmichael had Dutch by the neck, almost apoplectic with rage, and Hosea took the opportunity to take the large ceramic bottle that had once held shine sitting beneath the metal cot and crack it across the back of Carmichael’s head. He seemed to vibrate in shock before letting go of Dutch’s neck, spinning around, dazed, to face Hosea. He pulled his gun from his holster, pointing it at him—

Dutch grabbed Carmichael from behind and threw him into the straw mattress on the cot, which skidded a little across the floor from the force of his throw. Dutch and Hosea pounced, pulling out strips of the threadbare blanket they had sliced earlier in the day when nobody had been looking, and tied one around his head, gagging him so he couldn’t call for help. Dutch twisted the Sheriff’s hand so he dropped his gun, pulling it from his hand and pointing it at him. 

They stood over Carmichael, panting heavily. When he tried to get up again, Dutch pushed him back down, hitting him with the butt of the gun. His head began to bleed. 

“It’s awfully cold out there,” Dutch said, his voice silky and dangerous, “I think my friend here needs that coat of yours.” He smiled. Hosea stood beside him, somewhat star struck, as Dutch stared down his nose at the Sheriff like a wolf patiently appraising an injured deer. 

Carmichael mumbled something behind the gag and tried to sit up, but Dutch, sneering, kicked him back down, pressing the gun against his forehead. Carmichael’s eyes went wide. 

“Strip,” Dutch commanded, his voice quiet and full of mirth and arrogance. Hosea felt himself grinning, still punch drunk from hitting the cell, feeling as though his head was floating. 

Sheriff Carmichael seemed to want to argue, but the bead of sweat that rolled down his brow said otherwise. Shaking, he began to strip, taking his coat off and putting it on the bed. Dutch inclined his head toward it and the shirt that came off next without taking his eyes off of Carmichael. 

“Hosea, you take those. It’s cold out there.” 

Hosea grinned and took them graciously, putting them both on, thankful for the warmth. 

“These boots won’t fit either of us, but I think the pants suit me, don’t you think, Hosea?” Dutch continued conversationally, smiling sharply. Carmichael stripped them off. His hands were shaking. Dutch grabbed them and threw them on the floor. 

Carmichael put his hands in the air, in his long underwear, shivering in the cold of the room as sweat rolled down his face. 

“When I said ‘ _strip_ ,’ Sheriff, I did mean _everything_ ,” Dutch sighed, as though scolding a disobedient child. 

Carmichael made some noises of protest behind the gag but Dutch reiterated his point by pressing the gun against his head once again. 

The man, trembling, stripped until he was naked, his legs bent into his chest to hide his nudity. He held one hand up and the other over his crotch. 

Dutch handed Hosea the gun and pulled on the pants the Sheriff had taken off nonchalantly. He pointed the pistol toward Carmichael and only shrugged when the man’s eyes widened, as though he were pleading for Hosea to come to his senses. Seeing as Hosea felt he’d never had any sense, he ignored him. Dutch went to work expertly tying the Sheriff’s hands and feet using the shredded wool blanket they had shared over the last two nights, and Hosea had the distinct impression that this was not the first time he had done this. When he was done, he leaned forward and patted Carmichael consolingly on the head. 

“We’re gonna be going, now, angel,” Dutch said lovingly, his eyes glinting in laughter. He leaned in and gave Carmichael a whiskery kiss on the cheek, standing and twirling the jail house key ring from his hand that he had pilfered from the Sheriff’s belt. 

“Don’t wait up for us,” Hosea teased, leaning forward and planting his own kiss on the Sheriff’s forehead. He followed Dutch out of the cell, and he locked it behind them. Now that the gun was no longer pointed to his forehead, Sheriff Carmichael finally spoke up again, going on what was surely a furious tirade behind the gag they had bound around his head. Hosea poked his head out of the door, and was delighted to find that the side street where the Sheriff’s office was located was completely deserted. It was dinner time, and everyone had seemingly left their errands to eat. He gestured for Dutch to follow him, but not before giving him an affectionate slap on the ass, which elicited another cry of despair from the bound and gagged Sheriff languishing in the cell. 

They crept around the side of the building, and saw a tough looking bay mare padding impatiently at a hitching post, her dark mane fluttering in the cold overcast wind. She whinnied softly when Hosea crept up to her, but seemed otherwise agreeable enough. Petting her, he unhitched her reins and climbed into the saddle. Dutch grinned up at him and climbed on behind him, holding Hosea’s waist tightly. 

They were just reaching the edge of town when a particular building caught Dutch’s eye. He pointed to it, nudging Hosea, who took one look at it and turned his head exasperatedly.

“Dutch, are you crazy? We’re almost free!” 

“Oh come on, Hosea…” 

“No!” 

“Hosea…”   
  
  


* * *

  
  
_**March 9th, 1877** _

Mr. John Howell flicked the Ohio Examiner onto his desk and shook his head. 

“ ** _CON ARTISTS STILL AT LARGE; PINKERTON AGENCY ON HUNT; DUTCH VAN DER LINDE AND HOSEA MATTHEWS ESCAPE FROM KETTERING JAIL_** ” the page declared in bold from where he had thrown it. 

Nobody often asked Mr. John Howell’s opinion (as he was newly arrived to Kettering, Ohio and therefore apparently didn’t know any better), but his opinion remained that Carmichael was possibly the worst Sheriff that he had ever had the misfortune of having to know. He had come to Kettering due to the fact that it had struck rich in oil, but his business was not in oil so much as it was offering his services to the newly rich, who couldn’t help but resist an opportunity to document their recently acquired wealth. 

Mr. John Howell was a photographer by trade, a job which his father had severely derided and denied as a profession in the first place, but for which he had left England to pursue. He had spent five or so years taking portraits in New York before he had, on a whim, decided to wander deeper West in search of… 

Well, he wasn’t exactly sure what he was searching for, but the surly ranch hands, garishly coloured saloon prostitutes, and hardy black cowboys he had been photographing recently were much more interesting people than the endless nicely-dressed gentlemen and primly dressed ladies he had been photographing before. 

He finished his coffee and walked over to his camera, checking it in preparation for the day. He very quickly noticed something amiss about it, namely, that there was a plate inside the camera that had certainly not been there the day before, when he had photographed Miss Sandy Delaney of the Kettering saloon. That photo had been developed and handed to Miss Delaney yesterday. He was at a loss for how this plate could have gotten there. Curiously, he removed it, and began the process of developing it, placing it carefully in a spare fuming box and setting a little mercury beneath it. Just then, he heard someone come into his studio, and the mystery photo was forgotten as he spent the next two hours wrangling Mrs. Heidi Garrow and her six unruly children into position in order to take a decent photograph. When he finally stamped his signature on the developed tintype of the sour faces of Mrs. Garrow and her children, it was almost lunchtime. He took his modest meal at his desk, his eyes flicking over the headline of the newspaper. He suddenly recalled the mystery photograph and leapt from his desk, practically running over to the fuming chamber and pulling out the developed tintype. 

There, on the silver plating, was a portrait of the two escaped criminals, Dutch Van Der Linde and Hosea Matthews, tenderly holding hands and looking up at him with twin devilish smirks.   
  



End file.
